Collecting Green
by stephaniedeedee
Summary: A new prisoner has been transferred to Arkham Asylum's 'level 4' ward. " Was it wrong to imagine his handsome slim face, watching her with such intense eyes, when it's possible he could be imagining her hanging entrails?... She'd let him imagine all he wanted, if he'd let her see more green."
1. Chapter 1

The first thing I remembered was footsteps. A lot of footsteps. They were bringing in a new patient. It'd been a long time since anyone was brought to 'level four'. Possibly weeks or months, I couldn't tell you how long. So much of my time was spent dormant those days. That's why the few memories I have are so bright, even the little things most wouldn't recall; like how many steps I took while drifting to the front left most corner of my case. Six.

Twelve inches of rare fiber adamantine glass stood between me and my hall. Yes, my hall. At each end a high security voltage door, as one would expect to find at Arkham. The Left Door and the Right Door, respectively. One side of my hall was made of an indiscernible material with no doors or outlets, and the other a wall was made of my special glass. Mr. Arkham had bought it special, you see. A custom 30' x 14' 1/2'', just for little ol' me.

I was as close to the left door as could be, without touching my special glass. It didn't like being touched. A special addition, added with the second custom 30' x 14' 1/2'' wall. Mr. Arkham even took time out of his busy schedule to be there when that little gift was installed. That memory is especially bright.

The Left Door's light turned on. A vibrant red that clashed violently with the stale white florescence I was forever drowning in. Gears and locks shifted about in the mechanism before the door opened with a loud pop. Pressurized dry air flew out while it could, rudely breezing over my new guests. The six guards were used to the effect, but the subject of the entourage was not. They dramatically stumbled back, only to be jabbed forward by a baton. A thin figure collapsed to the ground, barely breaking the fall with shackled wrists. They began gasping for air between deep guttural cackles. The sound crackled through the air, doubling back into my ears thanks to the poor acoustics of my case.

"Oh, for gods sake," one of the guards groaned, kicking the patient with a steel toed black boot, "get the fuck up."

"Hey, Terry," one said to the other, gesturing over his shoulder, right at me. 'Terry' turned around, eyes hidden by dark tinted shades that were too large for his head. A sharply cut bushy stash twitched under his crooked nose. A beat passed. Hands that were fisted in irritation fell to a thick belt. Terry assumed a cocky stance and looked me up and down. I knew he did, because he made sure to exaggerate his head movements along with his hidden eyes. I did the same, though not exaggerated. His attitude was familiar. 'Terry? Terry. Terry… Yes, Terrance. He was there when they' - my eyes flickered to the panel to our right. A gift just for you.

"Well, look who's up and about. How's it going sunshine?" He sauntered up to my glass. One boot dropping heavy before the other. I couldn't see them now, but I knew that dark brown eyes were laying heavily on me. He was staring me down, leering as close as he could, albeit behind twelve inches of glass. From this distance I could just make out a tiny bit of raised scar tissue below his collar.

Behind him, two others were hoisting the patient up. He was a man. Tall and lanky, with dark wavy brown hair that covered his head and face. He was still cackling. Terry tilted his head to the side, listening, effectively exposing his eyes from the side, as well as just a little bit more of that raised flesh under his jaw. It was healing nicely. Terry glanced back at me, pupils dilated, catching the line of my gaze. The jagged line shifted around his bobbing adams apple. It jerked when the patient let out a rather large guffaw.

"Could you please shut him up?" His voice waved every so slightly. One of the men jerked the patient about by the arm, hissing something about being quiet. The cackling got louder. Jerry's head rolled with his eyes as he turned around, hand shifted to the head of his baton. Clanking sounds accompanied the movements. Keys. They dangled right above his very kickable ass.

"We should keep him moving," the one who'd pointed me out says. Terry doesn't acknowledge him, instead he leans over, putting his face right in front of the cackling man, catching his eye.

"If you don't co-operate, I'm going to have to use force. And you aren't going to like it," Terry says as he stands up, and the patient's gaze fallows, tilting his head back. Dark waves fall back to reveal a very malnourished and lined face. Sharp jaw line, hooked nose, bushy brows, and large intense eyes. The cackling has faded to soft giggles that leak from him, like water out of an old tap. Everything seemed fine, the patient had calmed down, but none of the guards seemed relieved. In fact, they seemed tense, waiting for something. The patient went silent, and a huge smile grew on his face. Terry punched him. I straightened in shock, my eyes most likely going wide.

The patient went down to his right, this time not even attempting to break the fall. He went down hard, head smacking the concrete, but it didn't seem to even faze him. His smile was still there, appearing to even be wider than before. Terry didn't even look down at him as he stepped over his legs, grabbing his arm,hoisted him up, and shoved him into the ill prepared guards before him. He said something, but so distracted was I, it was muffled. All that time, the patient didn't make a peep, nor react in anyway. No, he was distracted. By me.

Those large eyes, pupils blown wide, suddenly became glued to mine. From the moment they caught as he fell, he stared. Like I was Medusa and he was another man trapped in my wicked stare. But he didn't turn to stone, and I had no snakes for hair or winged horse inside me; which I would have cut out and escaped long ago. No, he was very much alive. His whole form was tinted pink by the blaring door lights, but his lights stayed untouched. Those intense large eyes glowed in my poorly lit hallway, pupils shrinking against the reflection of my glass case, revealing the kaleidoscope of his irises. Suddenly the roles were reversed, and I was Poseidon. Enchanted and hypnotizes by such beauty, for his eyes were every shade and tint of my favorite color. My favorite thing in this world, a color which represented my every failure and sin, but also my salvation. A color which I never thought to see again in that dismal asylum.

It lasted a century and a moment, for before I knew it he was pulled away, the Right Door slammed shut, and the room returned to a faded white. I returned to my spot on the floor, returned to dormancy, reliving my shiny memory of green over and over again.


	2. Chapter 2

He was laughing while they tied him up. It was just so funny, he couldn't help it. He wouldn't have stopped anyways. No, there was no stopping anything he felt anymore. Never again. The nurses gave him uncomfortable glances as they adjusted each strap. Didn't they know that if he wanted to kill them, they'd already be dead? None of this was necessary. He looked over at the man stationed at the door, knuckles white around the handle of his weapon. The man had a weapon, the prisoner was tied up, and his knuckles were almost as white as the walls. Another bout of laughter burst forth. Oh, it was just too funny. And so, Arthur laughed as the nurses strapped him to a gurney. There would be no six man escort this time. Arthur doubted whoever owned the place ever had that many men on duty regularly.

"Hey, um…." Arthur squinted his eyes, scanning the man's chest looking for any sort of identification, "sir." His hands rotated at the wrists while he thought, arms unmoving as they were strapped down. The only acknowledgment given was a deeper frown. Arthur smirked, turning his focus to one of the nervous nurses. He shifted around a bit, making her jump and causing him to giggle. Arthur grunted, cut off. She'd tightened the strap a bit more. "Is all of this really necessary?" He received no acknowledgment as the ladies finished up the last couple straps around his ankles.

The guard finally moved from his station, turning to the door and pulling it open. The contraption he was strapped to jerked about as the nurses lead foot unlocked the wheels.

"Hey, not so rough. I'm precious cargo." The guard rolled his eyes.

They wheeled him down the hall, through door after door, passed doors of other rooms where others were being strapped down as well.

"All of this over a little earthquake?" He said. Nothing in response. They wheeled him through the halls in silence for a good ten minutes. Then they arrived at that one door. This one he remembered. With the locks and the air and the light. Red, just like now as the guard entered in a key code. Crimson, bloody, just like the color of her- His thoughts were cut off by another small tremor. The guard braced himself agains the wall, and Arthur glowered in irritation as he bobbled around on his stupid wheeled contraption. It lasted a few seconds shorter than the first. A sigh came from behind Arthur's head.

"Let's just get him to solitary." The nurse complained. Barely wheeled into the room, and he was abandoned on his gurney. But he wouldn't be complaining anytime soon, for what was behind the glass was something he never wanted to be torn away from.

There she was, standing with her back turned to him. Tiny, bones protruding through grey paper thin skin, she was divine. Her lithe pale patience gown dangled off her fragile shoulders that heaved with excited breath. A breeze flew down from above, sending tendrils of her greasy blood red hair about, exposed in the moonlight. Moonlight. Coming through the crack in the ceiling, that hadn't been there before. In fact, there were many things that hadn't been there before. Many long, curling, impressively sized green things were curling in through the cracks in the walls, pushing apart stone. The walls cracked and crumbled around them like shortbread.

"Shit!" the once silent guard exclaimed, breaking the woman from her trance. She spun around with a grace one wouldn't think such a thin broken person would have. But she wasn't normal. No, Arthur thought, studying the room and the creature in it, she was far from normal. Her honey gold irises, the second thing he'd noticed all those many nights ago, looked to the guard and opened wide. He was standing before some sort of pedestal, which had a panel at the top. The guard flipped it open, revealing a series of buttons and sliders, but he touched none of them. The woman turned back around, stepping towards the growing gap in the wall, but it was too late. The guard slammed his hand down on the large red button.

An alarm went off. It was extremely loud, and Arthur cursed the inability to cover his ears. So instead, he laughed. He laughed over the sirens, and the sounds of the walls falling apart. He laughed until his eyes caught in molten gold. And he let himself melt. The laughter bubbled through him, but it wasn't violent. It was silent, like his slow smile that curled thoughtlessly up in the moment. She was so lovely, staring at him like nothing else existed. He was convinced the moment wasn't real. He only wanted her to see him, to stare back at him in any way. The need was so much, that he even envisioned her forgetting the sirens, which had her panicking moments ago. It couldn't be anything more than a fantasy, this moment, wrapped in violent crimson, and her doused in moonlight.

But it was real, and reality came crashing down as several small white darts suddenly appeared on her throat. She gasped tightly, her muscles contracted as she collapsed to the ground. But her eyes were still locked on his. As sprinklers doused the chamber in steaming liquid, as the vines shriveled away and her dress was dissolved by acid, her eyes still kept on his. Her body, small and fragile stayed untouched by the acidic substances that destroyed all else around her.

"Beautiful." He said, not even knowing he spoke. Before her eyes drifted shut, her body succumbing to the effects of whatever was entering her system, her soft pink lips smiled ever so slightly. Once again, he was moving. Like before, he kept his eyes on her until it was no longer possible. The halls were blaring red lights, and the alarm was just as heavy in the rest of the building. As they left the hall behind, many ran back to it. They had on lab coats and masks, determination in their eyes. This had been an anticipated event. Arthur was silent the rest of the trip down.


	3. Chapter 3

"He called me beautiful," she whispered to herself. It'd been a long time since Pamela had spoken. Her throat was dry, parched - Just like they wanted it to be - and it reflected in her voice. It hurt to speak, but she didn't mind because the pain meant she'd remember even more. Remember that it was real, that it had happened. The laughing man with the green eyes had spoken. The first words he'd ever spoken in her presence, and it was about her, about what she looked like to him. Pain. Her cracked lips split as she grinned uncontrollably. She didn't bleed though. No, they'd made sure she was too dry to bleed. Then she might use her own veins to make roots. Again.

Ever since they'd first dragged him through her hall, her mind had been consumed with green. She'd been so infatuated with his eyes, she could hardly picture his face. The days following she'd berated herself for not paying more attention, because when would she ever get to see the stranger again? The one with the most beautiful eyes of the most beautiful color she'd ever seen. No one who went through her hall went back out. Because no one left 'level 4', and through the Left Door was level 3.

She never even imagined the possibility of his being anything more than one bright memory. There were no consequences to her imagination running wild. What else could she do in her cell? Worry about her next session with Dr. Ridge? Those were always horrible, inevitable, and not worth the further torture. No, instead she dreamed of green eyes and warm, deep laughter. She imagined him there, in front of the glass before her, staring and smiling. Sometimes laughing. Nothing too imaginative, but just enough to fill her chest with a little warmth before the cold stone floors stole it away. Blurry memories only did so much.

But now, she had a better visual. She'd seen him again, and the image was just ever so slightly clearer. If it hadn't been for Jason pressing the alarm, she'd have an extra-shiny memory to hold and watch. A little more around that beautiful green she thought she'd never see again. Of course, if it hadn't been for those green eyes she probably could have concentrated just a bit more and escaped to greener pastures, literally, but there was no point dwelling on mistakes. There were plenty enough of those to last her several lifetimes. One was plenty enough.

He was a little more real, this green eyed man who cackled and laughed like it was the same as breathing. Now the chances of seeing him again were slim to none, and dangerous fantasies began. Ones of hands, which had been twitching under restrains as if saying 'let me out, I need to touch'. Long winding fingers encased in veins and tight gripping tendons. He's probably killed with those hands. No one in 'level 4' was innocent, in several ways. And one thing was for certain, all of them were killers.

How did he kill, this one? What was his M.O.? Did he have one? Was there more than one victim? Who was he, this criminal who thought she was beautiful. Pamela felt her skin crawl. Maybe that was his M.O.. Did it matter? It wasn't like she'd ever see him again? Was it wrong to imagine his handsome slim face, watching her with such intense eyes, when it's possible he could be imagining her hanging entrails?

She'd let him imagine all he wanted, if he'd let her see more green. Pamela frowned at herself. What had become of her, that she'd fantasize about a murderer fantasizing about her death, just because of some beautiful green eyes. They were very beautiful though. Within them she found chartreuse, juniper, sage, pine and even basil. The rings around his shifting pupils reminded her of moss. Lovely squishy moss, soft as a pillow she could rest her head upon next to a trickling stream. Nourishing. Tender. Home.

Pamela sucked in a shudder. How funny, she was crying. She patted the soft skin below her sunken eyes. Dry. She snorted, blinking her stinging eyeballs. She'd forgotten how much they stung. They made sure I can't even cry properly. She rubbed at her neck absentmindedly, and pulled back her hand. Her finger tips were flacking, and between her fingers the skin was cracked red and raw, like the walls of her cell.

Earthquakes were rare in Gotham. So rare, that old buildings like Arkham weren't built for them. You buy me special glass, and special doors, but forget the walls? She'd laughed at Mr. Arkham, huffing and puffing in front of the cot she'd been momentarily strapped to. They hadn't known she was awake yet, and she should've let them keep thinking she was out cold, but then he'd shown up, and she just couldn't resist poking him. Anyways, they'd knocked her out again, and a few hours ago she'd woken up in a new case. They even installed a temporary mini version of her glass wall.

This one, unlike the other, had no special hall. In fact, she now had a view across from her of a door to another room. On it were a series of freshly stamped numbers. 1004. There was obviously a tenant then. She had been intrigued at the idea of having a neighbor for her short re-location, until they filled up the window she'd made. Which, judging by how thick the concrete had been, it might be awhile. Probably won't be concrete anymore. Mr. Arkham always took advantage of the chance to update when it came to her. He would spare no expense on new and improved safety measures. She rubbed the side of her neck again. And then she rubbed her forehead, trying to rid the aches that wouldn't cease.

How long had she been lucid? She never thought this much. It was a bit overwhelming, thinking this much. Determined to get some rest, Pamela laid down on the ground of her cotless case, and waited. For what, she wasn't quite sure.


	4. Chapter 4

"Well, I don't know," the guard, Robert, glanced back to see no eyes on him, and turned back to the old woman, bringing his voice down, "just, don't let the man with the grey streaked hair see it." She grasped him by the shoulder as she passed, squeezing affectionately. Robert grinned at her, but his face fell once his eyes landed on who was next, or more specifically, what was in their hands. A bouquet.

It was visiting day at Arkham, and these visitors were more eager than most. Some of those who'd come were only able to visit every six months. Some even longer. But some, like Pamela's, were monthly regulars. Level 4's didn't get visitors. But, just like in many ways, Pamela always found herself to be the exception.

Looking paler than usual (which was a fete), hooked up to an i.v. and in a wheelchair, Pamela still managed to level an intense glare at the man across from her. Since he'd sat down, and she'd been wheeled up five minutes ago, neither had said a word. She just glared, and he glanced up every so often while jotting down notes in his ridiculously expensive leather notebook with an ostentatious gold lined fountain pen.

She eyed the paper as he flipped it. What a waste of spruce. She sneered.

"I see your temperament hasn't improved," Mr. Miles said. Pamela's fingernails attempting to dig into the arms of her chair, but all her energy was being used in her face.

"I haven't even said a word," she spat.

"You don't have to," he glanced up above his stupid little spectacles, eyes bored and as dull as ever. Her father sure knew how to pick them. Pamela watched her fingers pick at an invisible piece of lint.

"So, how is Daddy dearest?" she asked, nonplussed. It was only proper to ask. It wasn't because she knew he read these notes, and hated being reminded of his ties to her. No, it wasn't that at all. As if reading her mind, Mr. Miles sighed as he hastily wrote, his principles not allowing him to omit anything. She smirked.

"Better than you, I'd imagine," he glanced at the i.v., eyes following the tube to her thin purple wrist. He continued writing as he stared, hand going all on its own. Pamela scratched around the needle idly with paper thin nails.

"Oh, how disappointing," she said. He sighed again, taking note, and she smirked some more. That smirk fell when his eyes went back to taking her in. His gaze fell to her shoulders, her neck, zeroing in on things and jotting them down. With each observation came back the aches and pains she worked so hard to ignore. She could feel the liquid as it pressed into her veins after each and every weak heartbeat. It made her dizzy, and then nauseous. Oh, how she hated the nausea. The emptiness of her stomach felt cavernous, and so dense, like lead. How weak had she become that nothing was heavier than her? It pressed down and down, spiraling like the air that was becoming harder to breath. She sunk back into the chair, a collapse that appeared to everyone else as relaxation. Her head tilted to the side, eyes trying to find something to focus on in the spinning room.

And then she saw it. Green. Beautiful, endless comforting green. It would seem there was another exception to the rule.

Arthur sucked in so much air, he was surprised his ribs didn't split through his skin. She saw him. It felt like it'd been hours since they'd wheeled her in, when one glance at the clock could tell him it'd only been five minutes. The whole time he'd been silently screaming for her to just turn around. But he wouldn't dare make a peep, not this time. They'd take him straight back to his 'room'.

He'd all but howled in grief-filled laughter when they'd escorted him past her cell, now filled to the brim with workers and doctors, but no red haired angel. No glass wall. No vines. Nothing left besides crumbled concrete. The workers had glared at him, startled and ill-prepared to see the Joker so soon after his 'debut'. The guards sneered at him in disgust, pushing him along faster to his unwanted 'meeting'. They thought he was trying to get some attention, being as he was now locked away from the worlds eyes. But no, he had no intentions, no need to be seen or heard by anyone other than the woman who looked at him like nothing else mattered. He knew what that look meant. Cool feel it to his very core. It was a look he had given to so many things before. Had imagined receiving from so many people. Destroyed himself, his mind, knowing he'd never see it in person.

He was convinced he was hallucinating her while he stared. Her still little body in a wheelchair, turned away, face hidden behind a waterfall of beautiful crimson. A fantasy, a ghost, unable to acknowledge him around all these people. And then she's slumped back into her seat, her head rolled to the side, and her eyes fell upon his. That's when the look of unbridled awe grew, reaching straight into his chest. It wrapped around that bloody organ of his that somehow never ceased to pulse.

"Mr. Fleck," he frowned, and reluctantly turned back to the reason he'd been summoned to this room in the first place. He didn't know her name, wouldn't care to remember it even if she'd bothered to introduce herself. She was a government employee, required by the state to give him his mothers will, or rather, the few ransacked dirty papers she'd left behind as a sad sort of substitute. They appeared even more dirty, being placed in the sleek envelope the woman had brought them in.

"I'll repeat myself, then," she said, tone flat and as grey as everyone else, "these were the papers Penny Fleck left in a safe, in which she told her lawyer was her will. Legally, the government would hold onto any assets left to you, being as you are incarcerated, but there was no will, no assets left. In that safe were these letters, addressed to a 'Happy'. I've been informed that that is you."

"Yes, and I've already said I don't want to read them now," he stated. Maybe never. She sighed, fingers drumming on the table in exasperation.

"Well, you can't take them with you. You aren't allowed. This is your one and only chance to read them," he stared at her fingers, and couldn't help smirking when she put them under the table, oozing uncomfortableness. He looked up at her, and her eyes stared back… over his right ear. He huffed a silent snort, eyes drifting back to where they wanted to be. And he felt his heart stutter, for she was looking at him still. This time, she smiled and lifted her hand by the wrist in a soft attempt at a wave. He waved back.

"-Fleck?" she caught the very tale end of whatever Mr. Miles said.

"Hmm?" she didn't look away from the man with the soft smile, who waved so nicely at her, as if she were a child and he a kindhearted adult. So very sweet. How many facets were there to this gleaming emerald?

"I was asking if you know him, Arthur Fleck?" That got her attention. She whispered the name to herself. Arthur. Putting a name to the eyes shifted something inside her. It slid and locked into place. Arthur Fleck.

"No, I don't. Who is he?" She asked immediately, turning her full attention to him for the first time ever in their 'relationship'. Mr. Miles's grey manicured brows lifted.

"I-", he stuttered, pushing up his specs in a rare act of nervousness, "well, he is, or calls himself 'Joker'. Was a clown for hire who killed three people on a subway, and then killed Murray Franklin on live television." Well, that was a large pill to swallow. A minute passed. "I'm surprised to didn't know, but then again, do they let you watch television?" He prepared to take notes, also glancing periodically across the room at Arthur. Murray Franklin. She thought back, back before, back when she was in collage. Her roommate talked about him, as did her classmates. The talk show seemed to be ritually watched by families when it aired at night. She never really did enjoy television. In fact, she never enjoyed much of anything besides her plants and studies.

"No - Someone hired a clown to kill three men? Why would they allow him on a talk show?" Mr. Miles paused in his notes.

"What? No, he was a clown for hire, but then he was fired, and then he killed three men, but no one knew it was him until-" he abruptly stopped, eyes now looking across the room, "doesn't matter. What does matter is that he's locked up. Now, I wanted to ask about-" but he never finished that question.

"What is this!?" screamed a girl in her white gown. Pamela turned just in time to see her throw down a bouquet of now scattered bits of broken dead flowers. The stems had shriveled into black compost mush, of which some still stuck to the girls hands.

"Babe, what, I don't know how that," a boy in an oversized jersey with slicked back hair stood up. He went to touch her, to calm her down, when one of the guards immediately pulled him back, "I was just trying to-

"No touching the patients-"

"You dirty bastard, you don't see me for six months, and then bring me rottin' flowers!"

Arthur watched the ensuing chaos with a barely restrained giggle, when an elderly woman, a visitor going by her bright clothing and jewelry, screamed. In her hands she held a small pot. In it was a drooped over brown thing. Actually, it was visibly falling over and browning by the second.

"My cactus!" She shouted in absolute disbelief, looking to the guards who hurried over. They tried calming the woman, while also escorting her quickly out of the room. The man, most likely her son, stood up and complained, demanding his full hour. He was promptly escorted away as well.

SCREECH. Mr. Miles was now standing, chair pushed back behind him, notebook locked under his arm as he pushed a pen into his pocket. He turned and hastily exited the room. As if on cue, Dr. Arkham, hair dark streaked with white, follows him out through the guest doorway, and into the hall.

"Mr. Miles, please,"

"You promised positive result." The lawyer stated, not slowing down at all, eyes set before him. Dr. Arkham was panicking, seeing the end of the hall approaching. His brow was covered in sweat, and fake smile twitching.

"And she is improving! You saw the doctors notes-"

"That," the lawyer pointed back towards the elderly woman who was being talked down to by a nurse, "isn't improvement." He pressed the elevator button, watching the floor numbers change.

"Visible lack of hydration. Contusions around the wrists, neck and hands. The doctor's notes didn't cover any of these side effects. He's upped the dosage, it's not working, and the symptoms are worsening." The elevator opened and he stepped in.

"At least they didn't attack this time," Dr. Arkham said, forcing a laugh. Humor wasn't his strong suite, and always his last attempt. Mr. Miles turned around.

"Mr. Isley won't be pleased," he said, and the elevator closed. Dr. Arkham stared as the elevator roared to life and faded away.

"I'm sorry," said the softest voice Arthur had ever heard, and it came from her lips. He followed her line of site to the abandoned table, with the abandoned dead plant on it. Those odd gold eyes seemed to visibly fade in that moment. Like a little bit of her died inside to see the sad little cactus. If he wasn't physically tied to the chair by his ankles, he'd have stepped in the way of it, just so she wouldn't see. It would've been for not, for she was quickly wheeled out of the room shortly after. In fact, visiting hours was deemed over, and everyone was being sent either out, or back to their cells. Arthur included. It was a mad rush to clear the room. Arthur noticed the workers eyeing the doors, waiting for something. So distracted were they, that no one noticed the folder he tucked under his shirt.

Before Arthur was pulled through the door, he saw Dr. Arkham enter the room, throwing the doors open and grabbing a guard by the collar.

"I said, NO PLANTS!"


End file.
